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AUTUMN AFTERNOON 
and other poems 
ROSE CAVE GOULD CLARK 


Contemporary Poets 6 





AUTUMN AFTERNOON 

and other poems 


BY 

ROSE CAVE GOULD CLARK 



DORRANCE Philadelphia 

C a 


Publishers 



COPYRIGHT 

1923 

DORRANCE A COMPANY INC 

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MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

NOV -5 *23 


Dedicated to 

JAMES BETHEL GRESHAM 

First American soldier to die in France 


# 



CONTENTS 


Page 

Autumn Afternoon . 11 

Motherhood . 12 

Vacation in the Country . 13 

Applaud Me Tonight. 14 

Midsummer Storm . 16 

Beauty . 17 

Dissimulation . 18 

Clouds . 19 

Disarmament . 21 

Ppaf*<» O'X 

If I Had You* Beioved ’.* .* .’.*.*.*.*!.* ’25 

Hope’s Onward Vision. 26 

You Knew . 27 

“I Understand” . 28 

What America Means to Me. 29 

Inspiration . 30 

Days Not Our Own . 31 

Transfiguration . 32 

Infatuation . 34 

Lamentation . 36 

Fidelity . 38 

To the Poppy . 39 

Life’s Gems . 40 

My Mirror and I . 41 

Such a Little While. 43 

Love’s Torment . 44 

The Weary Day . 45 

Warrior Unknown—Thou Exalted. 46 


v 































CONTENTS 


Page 

In Commemoration of the First American to 
Fall in France—James Bethel Gresham. ... 48 

Time Shall Teach Thee to Forget. 50 

The Man Between . 51 

One Most Worthy. 53 

A Fairy Tale of Princess Spring. 54 






AUTUMN AFTERNOON 
and other poems 













* 











-r - 






AUTUMN AFTERNOON 

AND OTHER POEMS 

AUTUMN AFTERNOON 
The gasp of dying leaves floats o’er the hill, 

In opaque sky the sombre sun broods darkly 
in disdain; 

One by one the snowflakes, shuddering and chill, 
Clasp icy fingers on the window sill, 

And press white faces, wan and still,— 

Like ghosts of my lost happiness,—against the 
window pane. 

Pale snowflake faces, beneath the frost-rimed 
glass. 

Cold, dead faces. Thus fleetly mortals pass. 

The breath of fleeing life,—age bleak and sear; 
Despondent sobs of soul despair clutch harshly 
at my throat. 

One by one the snowflakes, melting crystal clear, 
Flow tremblingly, each glist’ning drop a tear 
For memories I hold most dear,— 

When youth and hope and love were mine, and 
death a thing remote. 

Cold snowflake teardrops, you drip in dull 
attune 

To my pensive heartbeats this autumn after¬ 
noon. 


11 


12 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


MOTHERHOOD 
A Tribute 

Great soul of glorious Motherhood, 
Throughout the ages you have stood 
A citadel of earthly good— 

The fortress of life’s noblest power. 

Your children’s love, in fragrant flower, 

At your fair shrine we lay 
This sacred Mothers’ Day. 

Our love cannot compare with yours 
Whose faith transcendent soothes and cures, 
Which, though forsaken, still endures 
And asking nothing, yet gives all 
In sweet maternity’s high call. 

The day is rich with blossoms’ glow— 

Some red as blood, some white as snow— 
Red for the living heart of you, 

O Motherhood, so pure and true! 

White for the Mother-heart that’s dead. 
Thank God, the flower I wear is red! 


AND OTHER POEMS 


13 


VACATION IN THE COUNTRY 

I left the city’s torrid zest 
To seek a quiet rural rest, 

But, Muse, you haunt me night and day, 

You make me work when I would play. 

I came out here where skies are blue 
Just hoping to be rid of you; 

But here you are, you sneak along 
To wake my weary soul to song. 

You bid me note the wooded trail, 

The fresh, cool violet-studded dale; 

You tease and mock me when I shirk 
Your inspiration’s toilsome work. 

Beside the lazy, idling stream 
You set my senses all adream, 

And I acknowledge with surprise 

I’m glad to look through your bright eyes 

And see the beauties of a God 

Who paints gay flowers and verdant sod, 

Who makes a garden of the world 

With sunshine’s banner all unfurled. 

With your imagination’s ear 
You’ve taught me unheard sounds to hear,— 
It’s true that breezes laugh aloud 
At every frightened fleeing cloud; 

And leaves all lisp in childish glee 
When they behold each grown-up tree 
Play games by lifting arms up high 
To see which one can reach the sky. 

You touch with glory’s splendor-rays 
The meadows sweet where cattle graze,— 
The kindly folk, the farms well-cared; 

’Tis best you came when forth I fared, 
You’ve made me write with heartfree rhyme 
The joys of glad vacation-time. 


14 AUTUMN AFTERNOON 

APPLAUD ME TONIGHT 

When Oblivion’s curtain at last shall fall 
O’er life’s dramatic stage, 

When I’ve spoken the last indelible word 
Carved on fate’s marble page,— 

When the final tragic scene is done, 

And my death act is o’er, 

Do not applaud me then, my friends,— 

You who did not applaud before. 

When I have played the many roles 
Written in my book of fate,— 

Ambition, sorrow, grief and love,— 

Or remorse that comes too late, 

Oh, my auditors, you who heed 
The emotions of my heart, 

Keep not your applause till the play is done, 
Tonight I would fain have a part. 

Should I ever enact a villain’s role 
On life’s realistic stage, 

The hisses from your jeering lips 
Would speak your scorn and rage; 

Life’s drama oft has tragic been, 

But the good I strive to portray, 

And toilsome work when a plot is sad 
Deserves applause each day. 

Then why be thus penurious 

With your kind words of praise? 

Wait not till Oblivion’s curtain of death 
Shall fall, no more to raise. 

Discouraged and worn a heart tonight, 

A soul craves a cheering word, 

Do not wait to give it tomorrow, friends, 
Too long it may be deferred. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


15 


Tomorrow fate’s book may fore’er be sealed, 
Tomorrow the play may be o’er, 

Tonight may mean exit from life’s vast stage 
Through eternity’s dark door. 

What good would loud applause be then, 

O fragrant flowers, and bright? 

To be with God is to need them not,— 

But, friends, I need them tonight. 


16 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


MIDSUMMER STORM 

(“Thanks be to God, he laveth the thirsty ground”) 

The sky grows dull, 

Then comes a lull, 

The air hangs sultry and warm; 

A few drops patter, 

On windows clatter,— 

The prelude to nature’s storm. 

With each wild gust 
Of wind the dust 
Sweeps whirling and swirling by; 

Keen lightnings flash, 

Loud thunders crash, 

And torrents stream from on high. 

But soon it’s o’er; 

The sun once more 
Bejewels the window-pane; 

The flowers are drenched, 

Earth’s thirst is quenched,— 

Be praised the cool, sweet rain. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


17 


BEAUTY 

Thy form is like a swaying willow, 

With gentle charm in every motion; 

Each gesture like the graceful billow 
Of an undulating ocean. 

Tresses like the sunshine straying 
Over leaves half auburn turning, 

Which some laughing zephyr playing 
Fans into resplendent burning. 

Eyes beneath whose dusky lashes,— 

Drooped with languid, graceful sweeping,— 

Summer lightning’s dazzling flashes 
In dark depths are lightly sleeping. 

Lips of rose where dews are dripping, 

Crimson with the sun’s warm kisses,— 

From whose sweetness love is sipping 
Nectar of life’s fullest blisses. 

Teeth agleam with pearly splendor 

When bright smiles thy lips are wreathing, 

Or, in God’s communion tender, 

Prayer devout thy soul is breathing. 

Thus I see thee, lovely creature; 

And if goodness is thy duty, 

Virtue shines from every feature, 

And I truly call thee Beauty. 


18 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


DISSIMULATION 

Amid scenes of enchantment, where life seems 
at play. 

And where merry frivolity holds cheerful sway, 

Where the eyes and lips glowing reflect 
joyous gladness. 

In the dim shadows lurking are phantoms of 
sadness. 

’Tis among pleasure's revelers deep hidden pain 

Gnaws so sharply at some who would happi¬ 
ness feign, 

For beneath the gay smiles there are souls 
sorely aching, 

And the laughter conceals many hearts slow¬ 
ly breaking. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


19 


CLOUDS 

Fluffy, billowy clouds, 

Trailing misty folds 

Of bridal veil 

Through love’s pulsating space, 
Screening from worldly eyes 
Wedlock’s sweet honeymoon. 

Dreamy, vapory clouds 
Diffusing into 

Tears of joy, 

Stream diamond showers earthward, 
Studding each finger blade of grass 
With a smiling gem of betrothal. 

Fair, shimmering clouds 

Of nuptial tulle, 

Dissolving into 

Love tears, 

Bathe the fertile soil of her heart 
To a dewy moisture, 

Wherein grows a riotous tangle 
Of passion’s blood-red roses 
For her Beloved. 

Somber, shadowy clouds, 

Trailing dusky folds 

Of mourning veil 
Across death’s storm-black space, 
Screening from worldly eyes 
Bereavement’s stark despair. 

Clouds of smoke-hued plumes 
Melting into 

Tears of woe, 

Splash and bespatter with muddy clay 
The flowers on a freshly molded grave. 
Shroudy, gloomy clouds 


20 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


Of funeral pall 

Submerge her soul with grief’s wild deluge,— 
Tears of death,— 

Dripping with ghastly echoes 
Through the haunted vaults of her heart 
For her Beloved. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


21 


DISARMAMENT 

Adown the crimson vista,— 

That blood-reeking path from earth to heaven, 
Whence innumerable hosts of war-driven souls 
Sped to eternity 

On the black, dragon wings of conflict,— 
There comes a mighty call, 

The integral voice of millions of voiceless heroes, 
Blended into one great, pregnant note, . . . 

Disarmament. 


Each scarlet globule of that torrential flood 
A red, red tongue; 

The rattling, dissevered skeletons, 

The mountains of mangled flesh, 

The blinded, death-dimmed eyes, 

The bayonet-pierced hearts, 

Speak all for those warriors, mute in death; 
The vehement cry echoing down the corridor 
between eternities, . . . 

Disarmament. 


Those earth-freed souls, 

Torn loose by War's grim blade,— 

Life for them a shattered promise,— 

Poised row upon row at Mercy's shrine, 

Evoke from the world's vibrating chords 
A sweet refrain 
Of peace on earth, 

Of faith and trust, 

And a keeping of our troth to them; 

Soft across the worldly din 

Swells their harmonious euphony, . . . 

Disarmament. 


22 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


And hark! 

The maimed, the broken 
Yet on earth:— i 

Those living souls in bodies cruelly tortured, 
Those living souls in brains tormented by war’s 
throes,— 

Call a reply, 

Reflecting the hope of their valiant hearts 
In the lift of expectant eyes; 

Their sweet minstrelsy 

Answering the thunder-tone of comrades Over 
There 

With an elegy of sacrifices not in vain, . . . 

Disarmament. 


Behold! 

Sorrowing mothers’ tears, 

Falling each for the heart that’s dead within her 
heart; 

Widows weeping for the lost glory of pure wife¬ 
hood; 

And lo! 

The army of children, fatherless, 

Treading life’s pitiless way. 

Through these flowing tears 

There gleams an iridescent, rainbow word, 

Radiating splendor and effulgence, 

Shining through infinitude, 

Up the crimson vista whence our soldiers, slain 
for freedom, sped;— 

Its rays drying the blood of wars, 

And casting o’er the hero souls,— 

Poised row upon row at Mercy’s shrine,— 

The light of quietude and peace 

The fulfillment of life’s shattered promise, . . . 

Disarmament. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


23 


PEACE 

(Dedicated to Mrs. Peter L. DeVoist, Duluth) 

Purer am I than the dawning’s 
Undefiled glimmer of light— 

Purer than silvery moon-threads 
Woven through fabric of night. 

Fairer than wee baby fingers 
Guilelessly curled in their rest— 

Heaven-grown petals so softly 
Wafted to motherhood’s breast. 

Higher am I than the mountains’ 

Loftiest cirrus-veiled peaks; 

Hark! across war’s cruel chasm 
Pleadingly now my voice speaks,— 

Lest you forget in the rabble 
Why to mankind I was born— 

Lest you forget the deep anguish 
Caused by the cross and the thorn. 

Mortals, oh, how you have spurned me— 

I, born of Jesus’ own breath! 

How you have stained my white garments— 
Dragged me through conflicts of death. 

Though I am God-sent and sacred, 

I have been trampled in dust— 

Tortured and humbled in spirit— 

Crushed by your greed and your lust. 

Now I am hovering near you; 

Cleanse me with merciful tears; 

Lift from the filth my soiled raiment, 

Free me from hate’s baneful fears. 


24 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


Lightning of wisdom midst war-clouds 
Flashes a keen glowing rift; 

Thence unto faith’s highest refuge 
Rise on my wings, strong and swift. 

Come to my sweet sanctuary, 

Fly with me up to the height, 

There to behold beatific 
Visions of truth’s holy light. 

Fail me not. If from your pathway 
I should be ruthlessly tossed, 

Then falls the wrath of destruction,— 
Life, hope and all will be lost. 

Near you I hover,—O hear me— 

Heed me and striving shall cease! 

I am God’s Christ-given promise— 

Lo,—and behold! I am PEACE! 


AND OTHER POEMS 


25 


IF I HAD YOU, BELOVED 

(Song. Music by D. J. Michaud) 

I 

If I had you,—and you were mine, Beloved, 

We two would dwell ’neath skies of azure hue, 

And there love’s sweetest bliss to share together, 
If I had you,—If I had you; 

Dear Heart, where grow the fairest, fragrant 
flow’rs 

We’d live through all love’s golden hours, 

But should grief cloud our heaven’s blue, 
Midst troubled storms I’d e’er be true; 

My soul would find its paradise 
In the glory of your eyes; 

’Tis sweet to dream 

What life would seem 

If I had you,—If I had you. 

II 

If I had you,—and you were mine, Beloved, 

Our lives would be as morning’s smiling dew, 

With music grand to draw our heartbeats nearer, 
If I had you,—If I had you; 

Our souls attuned would sing joy’s glad refrain, 

But should grief strike its minor strain 

With chords,—the saddest hearts e’er knew, 
Till death’s last dirge I’d still be true. 

Dear, answer me with love-lit eyes,— 

Tell me you do not despise 
Me when I dream 
What life would seem 
If I had you,—If I had you. 


26 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


HOPE’S ONWARD VISION 

That soul is dead, whose morrows cease to be 
Each one an opalescent strand 
Across sleep’s astral charted sea. 

That soul is dead, when hope’s beguiling hand 
Gleans not life’s shattered promise,—and 
Beckoning on with jeweled fingers 
Whatever vital spark still lingers, 

Guides through the grief pangs of today. . . 
O’er twilight’s retrospective gray, 

Out past the night’s Plutonic sorrow, 

Beyond the stars, . . . yet on and on 
To where Elysium’s tomorrow 
Smiles with sleepy eyes at dawn. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


27 


YOU KNEW 

I found a brightly new and novel thought. 

One ne’er before in finite senses born; 

As fresh as dew, from angel teardrops wrought 
On petals undefiled at wake of morn. 

This strange idea, utterly unknown, 

I grasped from unfamiliar realms afar,— 
Plucked it from boundless vastness, where alone 
It bloomed behind a distant, trembling star. 

This thought original was not of birth, 

Nor death, nor love, nor joy, nor woe; 

’Twas not of anything we learn on earth,— 
Attained from whence no mortal e’er could know. 

And with the thought thus found, so strange and 
new, 

A verse I wove with unknown words, and 
queer; 

None in the world could understand,—but you 
Knew well its message said, “I love you, Dear.” 


28 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


“I UNDERSTAND” 

When sorrow’s hand laid its blighting touch, 
When I felt grief’s ghastly fingers clutch 
My bleeding heart and wring it with despair; 
And when with poisoned drugs of woe 
My mind was dazed, and hope sank low, 

When trouble seemed far more than I could 
bear:— 

When all the wrath of an unjust fate 
On me seemed to vent its vengeful hate 

While the merry world pursued its jests and 
songs: 

When, overflowed with pain’s wild surge, 

My lonesome soul’s faint, hopeless dirge 
Was all unheeded by the passing throngs,— 

’Twas then you came, and the tender clasp,— 
Your fingers in mine,—their gentle grasp,— 

God knows I needed your dear, friendly hand; 
You gazed with eyes that knew life’s tears, 

Your voice, attuned by tragic years, 

Breathed to my weary heart, “I understand.” 


AND OTHER POEMS 


29 


WHAT AMERICA MEANS TO ME 

(Awarded prize by General Federation of Women’s Clubs) 

I 

AMERICA!- 

Young queen of a war-worn world, 

Soul of my soul you are; 

Long has liberty’s light been hurled,— 

My radiant, guiding star. 

Your meaning to me is all that is great, 

All that is strong and pure, 

Your wave-kissed shores ope wide the gate 
Where life and love endure. 

II 

AMERICA!- 

Your head lifted proudly high, 

Heart of my heart are you, 

Your diadem, touching God’s own sky, 
Gleams Red and White and Blue; 

Red meaning the blood in your virgin veins, 
White means your honor’s soul, 

Blue for the truth your flag attains 
With freedom as its goal. 

III 

AMERICA!- 

Your name is a hymn to me, 

Rising to heaven’s dome; 

Its sacred notes sweeping land and sea, 

Its theme,—my “Home, Sweet Home.” 
Your throbbing heart calls the weary to rest, 
Your voice bids strife to cease, 

Your arms enfold the East and West, 

Your meaning to all is—Peace. 


30 AUTUMN AFTERNOON 

INSPIRATION 

At Inspiration’s magic door 

My Muse knocks only once,—no more; 

Then, bearing poesy’s mystic lore, 

Flies swiftly past in fancy’s soar. 

But when the portal opens wide, 

Sweet genii voices trip inside,— 

Just for an instant to abide,— 

And firmly will not be denied. 

They carry me to that far height 
Where rare Afflatus sheds its light, 

And whisper in the breathless flight 
Fair, lovely thoughts for me to write. 

I strive to grasp them ere they’re fled, 
With pen dipped in my soul’s deep red, 

But words oft leave them cold and dead,— 
The wonder-things those voices said. 

L’ENVOI 

’Tis hard to stay a winging thought 

With treasure message richly fraught,— 

Elusive as a startled bird,— 

And snare it in the written word. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


31 


DAYS NOT OUR OWN 

The shining hours are done, 

Far West the bleeding sun 
Has drowned deep in the crimsoned waves,—and 
now 

The day lies calm at rest 
On nature's gentle breast, 

While twilight's fingers soothe its weary brow. 

Some days our poor hearts wring, 

Some days real sorrow bring,— 

They carry orchids black on drooping stems; 
Such days we all must know, 

Garbed in funereal woe, 

With tears the jewels in their diadems. 

Some mornings to us say, 

“I'm neutral, and today 
Is yours to make or mar just as you choose.'' 
Have such days to you meant 
Sweet peace or discontent? 

O let us not these options lightly lose. 

Let's glean the sunshine's ray, 

Cull flowers on the way, 

Lift high our souls in joy's glad, lilting voice; 
Tomorrow’s frowning morn 
May say with ruthless scorn, 

“I bring you grief,—this day you have no choice." 


32 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 
TRANSFIGURATION 


My eyes, love-hungry, 

Yearning o’er your face, 

Which in the flush of life was fashioned 
But in ordinary mold 
Of average mortal; 

Now,—lingering a last faint gasp 
This side your grave’s impervious portal, 

Vital spark scarce burning: 

Death’s pale trace on skin-taut skeleton, 

Brow drawn in agonizing pain, 

Lips dryly starched, 

Tongue stiffly parched,—yet, lo, 

I behold you in stately beauty, 

Regal, cold; 

The light divine casts its white shine o’er you, 
Beloved,—you who are mine. 

My eyes, love-hungry, 

Weeping, gaze entranced, and clutch and feast 
Upon that light fast fading 
Unto some far height 

Whence finite thought cannot earth-shackles sever 
To follow it 

Out past the stars’ emblazoned speedway, 

Where time and space still sweeping 

Grow not less 

But vaster, more enhanced. 

For, to your well-loved, yet plainly mortal face 

Death’s majestic mask 

Has brought ethereal beauty, 

Nor I to ask how this transfiguration wrought,— 
This crowning of carnal clay 
With proud immortal grace. 

Yet ’tis, perchance, God’s mercy 
Blinding my anguished human gaze 


AND OTHER POEMS 


33 


Lest I but see 

The vile decay of dissolution. 

Or, is it that just knowing you must go 
Your poor face does thus strangely wondrous 
grow? 

Ah, who can say? 

I only know 
I love you so,— 

I love you so. 


v 


34 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 
INFATUATION 


They met; 

Through cold convention’s formal glance love 
flashed its lawless sign, 

And yet 

Their lips smiled platitudes, while surged their 
souls with love divine. 

They paused 

Not long in life’s mad journey, but infatuation’s 
gaze 

Had caused 

Their hearts to wildly thrill in sweet despair’s 
tumultuous maze. 

They passed,— 

Each one to wend a separate path along the 
dreary way; 

At last 

Perchance these two to meet again,—still hope¬ 
lessly,—some day. 

To die 

Were easier for her than soil or lightly desecrate 

Her high 

White Godly pledge,—her sacred vows,—of wed¬ 
lock’s holy state. 

The years 

Then passed. She ceased to seek his gaze among 
the passing throng, 


AND OTHER POEMS 


35 


And tears 

No longer dim her saddened glance that searched 
for him so long. 

But lest 

The blue flame in his eyes strike lightning to her 
yearning heart, 

'Twere best 

These two fore'er should tread life's path the 
whole wide world apart. 


36 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


LAMENTATION 

Would that I might recall each selfish deed, each 
word 

I thoughtless spoke when life your fretted soul 
held tight; 

And would that these regrets within my grieved 
heart stirred 

Had not been thus deferred 

Until with vain laments I’m weeping here tonight. 

I wish, alas, Dear One, that I had only known 

What sick remorse is this my life must feel alway; 

Can conscience hotly seared,—or heart aghast 
atone 

Such human faults?—Alone 

I kneel distraught beside your form of pulseless 
clay. 

Had I but shown my love,—God knows I loved 
you, Dear,— 

When you were with me, struggling bravely by 
my side. 

Each careless negligence, the hours I made 
more drear, 

Now mock at me, and jeer, 

While your lips mutely smile across death’s bleak 
divide. 

If this cold, frozen kiss which on your brow I’ve 
lain 

Could bring you back one instant from far im¬ 
mortal height 

Would your poor stiffened arms then clasp me 
once again, 

While deep contrition’s pain 

You soothingly absolved, within my heart, to¬ 
night? 


AND OTHER POEMS 


37 


I wish your stony ears could hear my pleading 
cries, 

Those icy hands could feel the tears which o’er 
them rain. 

Would you forgive if you could see with death- 
dimmed eyes 

My heart, which bleeding lies? 

Would you forgive if you could hear and know 
my pain? 

But ah,—mad creature I, that I thus wildly crave 

Your pardon, when I know lament has come too 
late. 

Though years may heal the wound of your 
fresh-gaping grave,— 

Tonight an abject slave 

I’m scourged by grim remorse,—bound fast by 
ruthless fate. 


38 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


FIDELITY 

Clasped in the rosy, tender tips 
Of her fresh girlish fingers within his strong hand 
curled, 

She held unto his yearning lips 
A budding rose,—bright red,—its petals tightly 
furled. 

He kissed love’s bud,—it opened wide, 

Each hour, each day a sweeter rose leaf to unfold, 

And there—through wedded years,—inside 
He found life’s rarest gem, her heart of purest 
gold. 

Within her rigid finger-tips,— 

Cold now as stars, pale mirrored in the lake 
tonight,— 

She clasps in death,—with smiling lips, 

The ghost of their long years of love,—a rosebud 
white. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


39 


TO THE POPPY 

(Worn in Memory) 

Poppy,—like a blot of blood, 

I wear you pinned above my heart; 

Symbol of the gory flood 

That soaked your roots in scarlet mud. 

For our brave dead, 

Who fought and bled 

And died beneath the thrust of war's quick, 
poisoned dart, 

I wear you like a blot of blood, today, above my 
heart. 

Modest flower, once you grew 
In tranquil peace in Flanders Field ; 

Storms of war then wildly blew 
And bathed you in death's crimson hue; 

For heroes slain 
Your vivid stain 

Is their immortal blood above our hearts con¬ 
gealed, 

And worn today,—the sacred flower,—that grows 
in Flanders Field. 


40 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


LIFE’S GEMS 

I 

Childhood,— 

Fresh skies of azure blue 

Adrip with morning’s smiling dew, 

Turquoise are you,—life’s baby-blue. 

II 

Sweet Youth,— 

Aflame with love divine, 

Ablush your cheek, bright eyes ashine, 
Ruby are you,—life’s blood and wine. 

III 

Old Age,— 

Eternity draws near; 

Bedimmed and pale each weary year, 
Rare pearl are you,—life’s frozen tear. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


41 


MY MIRROR AND I 

Mirror, you who once reflected 

My young beauty, bright and warm, 
Tell me, have time’s stealing moments 
Robbed me of my every charm? 

Do the snowflakes, softly drifted 
O’er my sunny, golden hair, 

Hide beneath their frosty whiteness 
Tresses brighter and more fair? 

Is the marred and blemished surface 
Of my once smooth, girlish brow 
To human vision made unsightly 
By the seams that cross it now? 

Are these eyes, which shone so gayly,— 
Bright with love, and unafraid,— 

Less attractive, that the flowing, 

Blinding tears did make them fade? 

Are my lips, now pale and withered 
By life’s poignant draught of woe, 
Tempting less to love’s caresses 

Than when they did as rubies glow? 

And my form,—shall arms once tender 
Clasp it not in fond embrace, 

Because grief’s heavy, crushing burden 
Robbed it of its winsome grace? 

Mirror,—so akin to nature 
Are the visions you reveal,— 

Smiling, weeping, breathing phantoms,— 
Life itself is scarce more real. 


42 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


And within your depths reflected 
Souls look forth from mortal eyes; 

Tell me, now that youth is blighted, 

Am I an object to despise? 

Oh, vain woman, why so sadly 
Do you thus to me appeal? 

Womanhood’s intrinsic glory 
Stealthy years can never steal. 

No, ’twas not the Titian radiance 
Of your rippling, silken hair, 

It’s the dazzling crown of virtue 
Ever makes your beauty fair. 

’Tis not the brow of flawless marble 
Saintly loveliness adorns, 

But the scarred and furrowed temples 
Which have borne their crown of thorns. 

Nor from eyes aglow with passion 
Do the heart’s rich splendors beam. 

It is orbs by weeping faded 
That reflect the soul supreme. 

And the lips,—the ruby red ones, 

Tempt the wild and rapt’rous kiss, 

But those pale as ashen embers 
Breathe sweet pity’s tender bliss. 

The form,—ah, yes, the youthful curvings 
Please the worldly eye to trace, 

But the figure bowed with sorrow 
Does reveal a nobler grace. 

Woman,—vainest of all creatures, 

Let purity but o’er you shine 

And each year adds a sacred beauty 
To make your loveliness divine. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


43 


SUCH A LITTLE WHILE 

If reverie’s gentle fingers knocked, 

And memory’s magic key unlocked 
The massive door of the dim and sunless past, 
We’d see that evanescent years 
All mouldering lie on funereal biers,— 

The cadavers time aside so lightly cast. 

The years of glittering success, 

The golden years of happiness 
Are dull and tarnished and all decayed with rust; 
The years when youth and love divine 
Filled life’s glad hours with sweet sunshine,— 
Discernible scarce are they through shrouds of 
dust. 

The stern, grim years of sorrow’s reign 
When hope’s best effort seemed in vain, 

They, too, flowed away on time’s unceasing ebb; 
And now, like shadowy, phantom hosts 
In the past’s dark tomb of musty ghosts 
They’re woven over with clammy spider web. 

Be it joys and smiles, or grief and tears, 

Just think of the fate of yesteryears; 

Like them time quickly speeds us mile by mile; 
Play fair and pay life’s honest debt, 

Then do not worry, and do not fret,— 

We are only here for such a little while. 


44 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


LOVE’S TORMENT 

Do you love me, Dear Heart? It is quite incon¬ 
ceivable. 

All my bliss in your kiss 

Is so tinctured with doubt. 

Do you yearn for me, Dear? It is quite un¬ 
believable. 

Is it true that you do, 

With affection devout, 

Really love me? 

Do you love me, Dear Heart? It is quite beyond 
reason. 

Passion’s dart in my heart 

Drips with red-blood despair; 

My distrust,—yes, I know,—is the rankest high 
treason, 

But please, Dear, let me hear 
Your sweet lips again swear 
That you love me. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


45 


THE WEARY DAY 

(Song. Music composed by Walter Bicking) 

The weary day is almost done, 

Life’s pulse is throbbing slow’r; 

Sunshine takes flight, and shades of night hang 
low:— 

Day’s glad delights are o’er; 

Each hour was fraught with living’s joy 
From morn till setting sun, 

And happy hearts seek sleep’s sweet dreams 
When the weary day,—the weary, weary day is 
done. 

The weary day is almost done, 

Stars pierce night’s dark’ning sky; 

Some hearts with care and deep despair bowed low 
Now breathe a broken sigh; 

And spirits bold so grieved and worn,— 

Their battles still unwon,— 

Pray only for sleep’s dreamless rest 

When the weary day,—the weary, weary day is 
done. 


46 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


WARRIOR UNKNOWN—THOU EXALTED 

(Tribute to the Unknown Soldier, home once more, 
November 11, 1921) 

Warrior Unknown—thou sublime Unknown! 
Reverently we claim thee, our consecrated own: 
Thou, whose spirit did not falter 
At Calvary’s high altar! 

Knowing not e’en thy name, 

Nor from whence thy footsteps came— 

Unknown, thou fearless, thou valiant Unknown— 
Or whose flesh and bone 
Progenitored thy birth, 

Yet know we thy illustrious worth; 

And know we this: thou art 
Of Columbia’s war-torn heart 
A precious part. 

Tears, blood and woe—aye, such is conflict’s 
price: 

Exalted symbol thou, of supremest sacrifice,— 
Counting not the cost!— 

Thy life, thy name into war’s maelstrom tossed— 
And lost. 

Ambassador of that silent host who gave the 
utmost measure—fraught 
With death, whose message of triumphant glory 
thou hast brought, 

’Tis in their name, as in thine own, 

Unknown— 

Thy country’s homage to thy feet we bring, 

A requiem of love we sing. 

Great is our tribute to thee: yet greater this— 
that wrought 

On heaven’s empyrean scroll 


AND OTHER POEMS 


47 


There is not 

One damnatory blot 

O’er what might have been thy name: 

There shines, instead, a white, inspiring flame 
Where God has set aloft humanity’s far goal: 

Thy soul, brave Unknown Warrior . . . it is 

thy peerless soul! 

Out from the mists of the sea, 

Up from effluvia of war, 

Through broad eternity 
Shine, thou immortal star. 


48 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


IN COMMEMORATION OF THE FIRST 
AMERICAN TO FALL IN FRANCE 
JAMES BETHEL GRESHAM 

(Official National Memorial) 

Down in Indiana, where reflects the Southland’s 
shine, 

Where Ohio’s gentle ripples and the sun-rays all 
entwine, 

There a Golden Star is gleaming 
’Midst the crimson and the blue 
Of Old Glory, proudly streaming 
For a Hoosier lad, so true; 

Just a youth, who went forth gravely, 
Quick to heed his country’s call, 

Fighting grimly,—dying bravely,— 

First American to fall. 

Down in Indiana, where the North and South 
winds meet, 

Intermingling all their breezes into freedom’s 
incense sweet, 

Each soft zephyr wafts the story 
Heavenward, as an angel’s sigh, 

Of the boy, in youthful glory, 

First, for all our sakes, to die; 

First of ours amidst the battle 
In that mystic “No Man’s Land” 

To be slaughtered, as are cattle, 

By the foe’s red-blooded hand. 

Down in Indiana, where there grows the sweet 
woodbine, 

Where all hearts are joined in friendship by the 
Mason-Dixon Line,— 

Speeds there o’er the storm-tossed ocean, 
Each wild wave a requiem chants, 


AND OTHER POEMS 


49 


Thrilling this land with emotion,— 
“Thank thee in the name of France.” 
Soldier Boy, thy nation thanks thee, 
Honored, rest in home’s dear sod; 
Dying for thy country ranks thee 
Hero in the eyes of God. 


50 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


TIME SHALL TEACH ME TO FORGET 

(Song. Music by Start Mueller) 

Mem’ry’s hand o’er heart-chords sweeping, 
Sadly thrills me with grief’s tender strain, 
Wakes my weary soul from its sleeping, 
Fore’er to repine in vain; 

Ah, sweet joys and hopes departed,— 

Bright youth that was too fair to last,— 
Time has left me lonely, broken-hearted, 
Dreaming ever of love’s dear past, 

When you loved me and were near me, 

Ere shadows o’er my life were cast. 

Saddest of all life’s great sadness 
Is the love that unbidden still burns; 

Ah, poor broken heart, in your madness 
Cling not to the hand that spurns. 

Then away with wild repining, 

Pride shall conquer ev’ry vain regret, 

Past night’s despair the dawn is shining, 

Life must be as had we never met; 

I still love you, I forgive you, 

And time shall teach me to forget. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


51 


THE MAN BETWEEN 

The tragedies of passion, sin, of hate and greed 
Leave hideous scars on souls who suffer them,— 
but worse 

That tragedy when love makes of the heart a hell, 
And turns life’s sweetest blessing into its black¬ 
est curse. 

God puts into the soul of every man-child born 
Two loves, each pure and brave, and each of 
priceless worth; 

The one that high affection every true son knows 
For her who braved death’s crudest pangs to 
give him birth. 

Man’s embryonic soul endures for her whose blood 
Transfused his being from her warm, maternal 
heart 

Devotion tender, worshipful, protective, strong,— 
His love for her who bore him has no counter¬ 
part. 

So great his mother’s love that only God can 
speak 

Its language,—only angels its rare height may 
know; 

Sweet sacrifice the golden cross she bears for him: 
She gives unselfishly,—she shares his every 
woe. 

Then comes the day when life must sweep him 
from her arms, 

When manhood calls, and nature’s urge he must 
obey; 

And love of man for woman,—pure as fairest 
dawn, 

Leads him to wedlock’s altar;—’tis God’s holy 
way. 


52 


AUTUMN AFTERNOON 


Fond love the maiden brings,—to serve with 
heart and hands, 

To live, to die for him,—his wife in Heaven’s 
eyes; 

Such bliss as theirs makes all the tears of life 
worth while:— 

But,—O, the soul that gave him birth in 
anguish cries. 

Between these loves,—which like soft prayers 
above his brow 

Should, blessing him, have soothed him with 
their gentle grace,— 

He stands, dismayed, that these whose love is all 
his world 

Shall each the other strive to thrust from his 
embrace. 

His soul the battle-ground, his heart the poor 
bruised thing 

Wherein a wife and mother struggle to be 
queen; 

His love and theirs they use to torture him,—he 
knows 

Not why,—God pity him, the man who stands 
between. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


53 


ONE MOST WORTHY 

(Dedicated to Mrs. John Rutherford McGiffert, First Presi¬ 
dent of Duluth Chapter, American Legion Auxiliary, in 
appreciation of her war work) 

To her most worthy, most deserving,— 
Never faltering, never swerving 
From the path of duty, nor mattered not how 
rough the road she trod; 

Such as she kept our fair banner flying, 
Soothing the suffering and comforting the 
dying,— 

Serving well her country and her God. 

To her, whose heart and hands e’er working, 
Never faltering, never shirking,— 

Bring we these fair blossoms, bedewed with 
thoughts like jewels in the sun, 

Their fragrance, pure as angel voice soft 
spoken, 

Breathing our eulogy, the true and loyal token 
Of these war-stricken hearts that throb as one. 


54 AUTUMN AFTERNOON 

A FAIRY TALE OF PRINCESS SPRING 

Grim Winter, rigorous young King 
Of glacial, frigid reign, 

With icy fetters sought to bring 
As captive lovely Princess Spring 
To dwell in his domain. 

She laughed in gay, coquettish mood, 

And sped o’er melting snow; 

With frozen gems he proudly wooed, 

On wild March winds he swift pursued 
To realms of April-glow. 

Heart-free she danced in purest mirth; 

Flow’rs bloomed where’er she trod; 

She sang of Christ and souls’ re-birth, 

She told the mortals on this earth 
Of Everlasting God. 

She wove with fingers pinkly tipped 
Green veils on bush and trees; 

Barefoot through dewy grass she skipped, 

She kissed the fruit-buds, crimson lipped,— 
Her breath a fragrant breeze. 

Her hair the sunshine’s threaded gold, 

Her voice the zephyr’s sighs; 

May’s floreated lane she strolled, 

Love’s sacred secret yet untold, 

Life’s rapture in her eyes. 

She met Prince Summer,—’twas in June,— 
With youth’s vibrating charms; 

Their souls embraced in chaste attune, 

And lips met lips;—in love’s sweet swoon 
She died within his arms. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


55 


The grieved young Prince, through torrid days, 
Spring’s gracious gifts caressed— 

Her fruits grew ripe beneath his rays, 

Her grains matured within the blaze 
Of his love’s hot unrest. 

One night when late the flow’rs slept 
They shuddered and were chilled; 

And bowing weary heads they wept 
As stealthy Jack Frost softly crept,— 

Prince Summer then was killed. 

Prince Summer and fair Princess Spring 
Beneath the dead leaves lie; 

The joy birds droop on sorrow’s wing, 

And Autumn’s winds a requiem sing: 
“Good-bye, dear loves, good-bye.” 





















